The Arrangement
by Laurielove
Summary: When a prisoner is allowed no other visitors and no gifts, what can be offered to him in exchange for information? Hermione and Lucius come to a very personal arrangement, but will it develop into more than they bargained for? M readers only. LM/HG
1. Chapter 1

**I've had this nearly ready to go for quite a while now. It came to me suddenly one day and I had to get it down. Yes, I am still working on my other commitments (she declares loudly as she hears mutterings of discontent) but I have to write what the muse dictates. I hope this keeps you happy in the meantime. I've made a note of all wall requests and when the PWP muse strikes again, I'll address those first. This isn't really PWP, more SWS (Smut with Substance). I loved writing Touch and Communion, and this continues the theme of a broken Lucius, still proud, but in disarray, as you will see. He has not been exonerated after the war (first time I've ever written him like this) and Hermione has been sent to 'rehabilitate' him in Azkaban.**

**...**

**Enjoy, lovely people. This story is finished on my HD and is six chapters long, so I won't be keeping you waiting for updates (I know, amazing, hey?) LL xxx**_**  
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><p><em><strong>Week One<strong>_

For someone about to enter Azkaban, Hermione Granger was curiously calm.

Admittedly, she was only there for an hour or so to do a job: to visit Prisoner Number 1625 as part of his Sequence of Rehabilitation and Resocialisation.

There were few people willing to do these jobs. The very walls of Azkaban - grey rock, hewn in ancient darkness, rough and damp - sapped warmth and comfort from anyone who entered within them, even without the now-banished Dementors.

But Hermione had been only too keen to volunteer. The prospect of working with an inmate of Azkaban had filled her with her usual sense of a challenge. It was so far out of her comfort zone and her predictable routine at the Ministry that she leapt at it. Life had become far too mundane of late - she longed for the spontaneous and vicarious thrills she had experienced when on the run.

Hermione had prepared carefully, as ever. She had applied warding charms and had meditated (a Muggle technique recommended by her aunt Veronica in times of stress) for an hour the night before.

But it wasn't just her careful preparation which had allayed any fears. Prisoner Number 1625 would present a unique test. He was sure to hate her, by definition. She presumed she hated him. She had hated his son, but strangely knew little about the father. His arrogant demeanour was enough to rile her, certainly, but his stubborn refusal to acknowledge any common humanity between them was the challenge she now wished to tackle.

Working with her would be crucial for him; if he performed well under her supervision he had been assured of release. He had narrowly missed out on freedom as it was. His wife and son had been granted it; their defection from Voldemort had apparently been more obvious and genuine than his. It was concluded that, individually, he had only acted for his own sake, out of cowardice. Clearly the Wizengamot had felt another spell in Azkaban (a place with which he was already more than familiar) would give him time to mull over his failings.

Prisoner Number 1625 was kept in an individual cell. There would be a narrow window high beyond his view, a bunk, a toilet, a sink, a wooden chair, and nothing else. The door would lock and seal magically, not even allowing a glimmer of light to poke through from the corridor. The cells were sound proofed. Any requests or cries of anguish would not be heard.

Even so, as Hermione entered the edifice and followed the shuffling, monosyllabic guard up to the cell, she believed she could detect the low wailing of human despair from the rock itself, as if the torment of past centuries had imprinted itself into the very fabric of the building. The dankness chilled her bones, and the constant morose dripping from the walls suddenly jarred her soul. She shivered violently and impulsively as she continued along. The guard glanced at her, his eyes dark, his thin, dry lips twisted with derision. They had walked on and on and up, ever upwards, following dark corridors and narrow, spiral staircases of well-worn stone, until she was sure they must have been near the top of the prison. At length they stopped. Hermione was at first unsure – she could not even see a doorway. But then the guard flicked his wand with minimal and resentful exertion and the stonework before her shifted, revealing a thin gap indicating the outline of a door.

"Here." He huffed at last. "You've got up to an hour. The door locks both sides." He turned to go.

"What if I need to get out?"

The guard's words leeched putridly from his narrow mouth. "_Icarcero Overto._ You've got your wand. Use it."

He tapped the door and it swung open a fraction with a groan. The guard indicated with a jerk of his head for her to enter. For the first time, she hesitated, her heart pounding audibly through her. But Hermione placed her hand on the door and pushed. The cell was gloomy – she could barely even register anyone inside. She stepped in, and as soon as she had, the door shut heavily behind her with a dull but loud thud.

She blinked, partly from the shock of it, partly from the need to adjust her eyes to the gloom. Opposite her, in the shadowy recesses, she discerned a figure with a shock of long pale hair. Her heart caught in her mouth. The figure took a step out towards her. His face was covered in dark stubble; his once silken hair was dry and matted. Dark shadows slumped beneath his eyes and his brows were knotted as they stared across at her. He was in even more disarray and dishevelment than she had seen in him during the final moments of the war.

Hermione swallowed hard. He was staring at her. And even through red rims and lids heavy with recrimination, his eyes shone so bright and so grey she was startled.

Lucius Malfoy took another step towards her. This time she stood her ground and rediscovered her resolve. Holding herself tall, she lifted her chin. "Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy."

At first there was silence, but then deep, chilling words were tossed at her. "Is it?"

His voice took her by surprise. It was lower than she remembered, husky and dispossessed. "Excuse me?" she stuttered.

"Is it? A _good_ afternoon?"

"I ..." Her greeting had been ridiculous she now realised. She flushed red.

"I wouldn't know," he stated with a lilt of resentful humour.

"It's just after three o'clock."

Malfoy glared at her. Once again she had spoken utter rubbish. His awareness of time was denied him and therefore redundant. She was ashamed of her condescension.

"Why have they sent you?" he demanded, cold but determined.

"To continue your programme."

"I know _that._ I mean ... why _you?"_

"No one else wanted to do it."

"How reassuring," he sneered.

"If you do well, you will be released."

"And what exactly does 'doing well' entail?"

She shrugged a little. "Showing interest, being positive, exhibiting behaviour to convince me that you have eschewed the dark ways."

"Convince you?"

"Yes."

"And does this involve questions ... _tests ..._ Ministry designed experiments to delve into my psyche and decide whether or not I am fit and clean for re-entry into polite society?" His words were iced with bitter sarcasm.

"Not really. It involves ... talking."

Malfoy did not reply, as if already denying her her purpose. He turned away and stood, staring at the back wall. She waited.

"I'm here for an hour, Mr Malfoy. You've only really had yourself for company for three years. I may not be your ideal choice of companion, but if I were you, I'd use the opportunity."

Malfoy remained standing, his back turned to her, not speaking. After a while she took the sole wooden chair in the room and sat on it.

For fifteen minutes his resolute silence continued.

Hermione studied his back. His hair was as long as it had ever been, but now darker with dirt and tangled. She itched to take a comb and brush it through. She could have used magic, but the urge to brush it out by hand was almost, and oddly, overwhelming.

He had been allowed his own clothes and wore a long black jacket which extended far beyond his hips. It had once been a fine garment, but was now grey and tattered along the seams and cuffs.

She waited. She burned to speak, but she would not give him the satisfaction of showing her frustration.

And then she had it; Malfoy turned quite suddenly and looked down on her. His right eyebrow cocked, feigning haughty surprise.

"Still here?" His voice held again that sardonic, almost seductive smoothness it had always had. It almost reassured her.

She didn't answer him. _Two could play at this game._

Malfoy stared down, clearly expecting a response. When he didn't get one, he sniffed out in derision and turned away from her again. "Which department have you been sent from?"

"Magical Law Enforcement – the Rehabilitation Division."

"Rehabilitation ..." he repeated with a sneer under his breath.

"Draco's in that department now," she dared.

She noticed his eyes flick rapidly towards her, his features tense with interest.

"He works across the corridor from me, although we're both so busy we rarely see each other."

She could tell he was struggling with himself. His hands were clasped into fists and his nostrils flared.

"Is he ...?" He bit back his question.

"Is he what?" she offered.

"_Well?_ Is he _well?" _Malfoy forced the words out as if they pained him to direct them at her.

An odd curl of emotion twisted through her. "Very well. He's highly respected in the department. He always had a good mind ... and a good work ethic, surprisingly."

Malfoy stared hard at her, his eyes cold. "Did you mention to him that you were coming here?"

"He knows. The whole department knows. I didn't get a chance to speak to him before I left. If I had, I'm sure he would have sent his best wishes."

"I haven't seen him for thirty seven months."

"I know." She let her head drop down. Despite more humane measures being imposed under Shacklebolt, the regime of Azkaban was still far harsher than any Muggle prison. "It's ridiculous that you're not allowed visitors."

He sneered. "Visitors? I am not even allowed letters, Miss Granger. Nothing. If you were to offer me a penny chew it would be denied me."

She glanced up. As much as his stark words depressed her, she could not stop a vision coming to her mind of herself handing Lucius Malfoy a fizzy cola bottle. It almost made her laugh aloud.

"You have occasional times when you're allowed into the yard, don't you?"

"No more than once a month."

Hermione studied his face, but it remained as impenetrable as ever. Had he suffered enough? Had he paid the price for his actions? Had they changed him? She doubted it. Yet she didn't fear him as she once had, he didn't even intimidate her. If anything, she was intrigued by him. Despite his haggard appearance, he retained a certain nobility even in the desolation surrounding him which she found herself admiring.

Three years in isolation in Azkaban was penance enough. If he convinced her that he no longer posed a threat to society and if he complied with some of the Ministry's demands (which she had so far omitted to tell him) even she would welcome his release from this soul destroying place.

Malfoy said little more. Neither did she. She would not impose her questions on him. She had orders from the Minister to ask him specifics, but she would not rush things. She was to return every week and wished to build up his trust, if that was possible, first.

Malfoy stood the entire time. He did not seem to look at her, and she did not indulge his ego by staring overtly at him, but when she did glance across she noticed his eyes quickly flicking away from her. Frequently he would inhale deeply through his nose. She wondered at first if he was unwell, if his lungs were struggling for breath, but he was not wheezing or coughing. It was simply that he would take the deepest intakes of breath from time to time. At those times, his eyes would flutter shut briefly and he would almost seem to lose his composure.

But her overriding emotion surprised her in its stark intimacy; she so wanted to brush his hair.

"Don't you want to sit down?" Hermione queried after several minutes had again passed in silence.

"No. And in case you hadn't noticed ..." His voice was as snide and frosty as ever. " ... you are on my chair."

"I'm sorry." She stood up. "Here. I can sit on the bunk."

She sat on the thin mattress immediately, the hard slats creaking as she lowered herself. Malfoy's eyes widened and she thought he would tell her to get up, not to place herself on his sleeping place. But he didn't. He swayed a little but said nothing.

He remained standing for a while longer, but then, with another intake of breath, he pulled the chair towards him and sat on it.

"Draco is getting very friendly with Astoria Greengrass." This sudden intimate information she had placed between them seemed at odds in the dank air.

Malfoy turned to look at her steadily, any glare in his eyes for now gone. His mouth opened, but he was clearly struggling with himself, not wishing to appear curious.

"Do you know her?" Hermione continued.

"I know of the family. However, I have never seen her. Is she ...?"

Hermione waited for him to complete his question.

" ... intelligent?" Malfoy added at last.

"Umm ..." Hermione was taken aback. She had presumed he wanted to know what she looked like, whether her pureblood ancestry was reflected in desirably fine features. "Yes. She's very unassuming. Lovely." She was trying to hide the surprise in her voice. "And very attractive," she couldn't help adding.

Malfoy glanced at her again, his eyes shifting, clearly unsure why she had said it. His lack of presumption pleased her.

Time ticked away. There were still moments of silence, but Hermione did not feel awkward in them, and any glance at Malfoy revealed an oddly calm expression; she suspected he didn't either. She noticed that his blonde hair and his grey eyes provided the only contrast to the black, rough walls and stark brown furniture surrounding him.

And then there was a groaning against the wall and the shape of the door revealed itself again. It was pushed open and the taciturn guard appeared in the doorway. "Time," he muttered.

Hermione stood and looked across at Malfoy. "I'll be back next week. Good bye."

He did not respond. She didn't expect him to. Hermione turned and followed the guard out, hearing that thick thud as the door resealed itself against Malfoy.

-xxoOoxx-

Lucius Malfoy stood in his cell, suddenly feeling more alone than in all the three years he had been imprisoned. The scent of the woman's perfume, apples and sweet peas, which he had found himself inhaling desperately while she was there, lingered. He hoped it would remain until she returned.

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><p><strong>She'll be back, Lucius. In the meantime, if you need anyone else to keep you occupied, you only need to ask ...<strong>

**;-)**

**Reviews are lapped up, as always. LL xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the lovely reviews and interest in this story. I will be posting every other day, have no fear. **

******So ... Hermione and Lucius spend more time in his cell ... but why is she really there and how will he react?**_**  
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><p><em><strong>Week Two<strong>_

Hermione arrived at Azkaban earlier than she was expected the following week. The same guard greeted her – greeted was hardly the word; a gruff humph was all she received – but made her wait until the appointed time before escorting her once again along the corridors and up the stairs to Malfoy's cell. She had spoken to Draco briefly during the week and had told him that his father was well – as well as could be expected. Draco was clearly relieved and asked her to tell Lucius the house was in good order, that he was enjoying his work and – Hermione was surprised at his openness before her – to pass on his love. There was little else she would be able to transfer from son to father.

Her time was limited this week; she was only granted fifteen minutes due to Azkaban duty shifts. As much as she should hate the place, the thought of being rushed for time dismayed her.

The door shut behind her as she was shown into the cell. She searched Malfoy's face for an indication of how he felt about her arrival. She could read nothing. Almost immediately she sat on the edge of his bunk again and began talking about random nothingness: the weather, tedious details of Ministry bureaucracy. At times neither said a word, and the only sound was the insistent dripping of dirty water down the damp wall. It formed a small puddle which would petulantly drain away into a small grating in the floor.

"I saw Draco. He asked me to say that all is well at the house. He stays there frequently and is managing it well. He's happy at the Ministry and is kept very busy."

Malfoy nodded and his eyes darted around, as if his brain was feeding off the little snippets of information she was providing for him.

"And he sends his love." She spoke genuinely and softly, almost as if trespassing on a private moment.

Malfoy swallowed. After a moment he turned his back on her and silence fell over them again. Hermione shuffled her feet on the hard rock beneath her, startling an alarmingly large beetle which scuttled away under the bunk.

"And my ex-wife?"

Hermione looked up, shocked at his inquiry after Narcissa. Malfoy's wife had left him soon after the war. It was rumoured that if she had been more forthcoming in his trial he would have been spared prison, but when it came to it she did nothing to provide testimony in his favour. Their divorce had been finalised while he was behind bars.

"She must not interfere in the estate," he continued, his voice cold. "I want her nowhere near the place."

"I ... I'll speak to Draco."

Malfoy looked at her briefly before his face twisted into a sneer and he turned away. But for once Hermione knew the sneer was not directed at her but at the memory of his wife's behaviour.

Just then the groan of the opening door reverberated around them again. Her time was up. The guard hurried her out, shutting Malfoy back into his hard, black emptiness.

_**Week Three**_

It continued like this the following week. Little was discussed of any importance, but they seemed comfortable in each other's presence. This man had minimal human contact. It gave Hermione an odd sense of satisfaction that she was the one providing it for him now. He had no choice in the matter, either in who she was or in his emotional gain. But she could tell he anticipated her visits, that he looked forward to the time she spent in his cell. He wanted her there despite the fact that she was Muggle-born, despite the fact that she was everything he despised; she knew it.

_**Week Four**_

The following week, after an initial, brief and entirely meaningless conversation about the food in Azkaban, Hermione at last revealed the ulterior reason she had been sent to him.

"Mr Malfoy ... I'm not only here to further your rehabilitation. The Ministry believes you have information which may be of benefit. They are hoping you will be willing to impart this to them, in exchange for a more favourable appraisal of your future release." She came straight out with it but could feel her throat drying on her. She swallowed hard, searching his face to determine his reaction.

The grey eyes flashed with revelation, interest even. "Well well ... not so innocent after all, Miss Granger."

"I'm merely following instructions, Mr Malfoy."

"Bribery and corruption ... who would have thought it?" The Malfoy smirk danced over his mouth, a relic from his past. Despite herself, she found it appealing.

"I see it rather as an advantageous arrangement for everyone involved."

"Offering freedom for information?"

"It's an age-old ploy."

Malfoy remained silent and looked steadily across at her. She held his stare, aware once again of the brightness of his eyes in this otherwise sterile and bland environment. She could sense his annoyance, but not once did she believe he would dismiss her. He needed human discourse, the presence of another, too much to do that.

"What is it you wish to know?" he asked tersely. Her body rippled with satisfaction at his capitulation.

Hermione drew in a deep breath and continued. "The Ministry has reason to believe that there is an official working within it who was instrumental in providing inside information to Voldemort leading up to the war. He has so far managed to evade detection. Apparently, he is a half-blood whose family were largely vehemently anti-Voldemort. He purported to be the same. There are several people this could be. We want to avoid upsetting the families by unnecessary investigations and were hoping you could help us."

Malfoy was utterly quiet and still for a while longer before his smooth tones slid across to her. Still, she could hear the underlying hiss of desperation. "And how do I benefit from this ... arrangement?

"You gain your freedom."

He scoffed. "You know as well as I that it will be months before that is even considered. What do I gain from this _here, now?"_

Hermione looked at him. His eyes were burning. He saw the opportunity. He wanted something, anything that would break the monotony, break him from his harsh desolation.

"I can't give you anything; it's forbidden. Your sentence would be extended and I wouldn't be allowed here anymore."

His face flinched. She knew how much it pained him to hear that; her visits were his one glimpse of colour in an otherwise grey and confined world.

She swallowed. Hermione's innate decency wanted to ease his suffering, wanted to reward him for anything he could give her. Part of her shared his agony at the absence of interaction, of no hope of seeing life, of seeing beauty from one week to the next. But at the same time, her power over him at this moment was intoxicating. Standing alone together in his dark, dank cell, her skin prickled as she held his hopes in her hands.

She asked directly, her voice breaking sharply through the heavy silence. "Do you know the name?"

"Yes. I liaised with him myself for the Dark Lord."

The reminder of his past sat strangely easily within her.

He stared at her, waiting. Hermione understood why he was holding back. The groaning cogs of the Ministry judiciary would take months to release him even if he confessed to all he knew. She admired his stubborn resolve.

Malfoy's eyes cast rapidly over her face. The grey of his irises alone burned a path between them in the otherwise fetid air. Hermione allowed a shiver to ripple up her spine before her soul settled.

She had decided what she would do.

"If you give me the name, I will show you my breasts, naked, for thirty seconds."

Silence.

She had said it. She could not retract it. But, strangely perhaps, she was entirely content with her statement. If he agreed, she would do it. Her body shivered again, not entirely through apprehension or cold.

For a moment nothing happened, and they both stood staring as they had done so often. Then those tormenting red lips of his curled into a sneer and he let out a taunting laugh. "I'm not some acne-ridden Hufflepuff third year, Miss Granger. Never have I heard anything so desperate."

"I can't give you anything tangible, therefore I give you my humanity. That is my offer."

He stood, still sneering. "You surprise me – offering your body for information."

"I see it as offering something which you would not otherwise receive. I'm not allowed to bring you anything. I can't change the conditions of your incarceration. There is little else I can do."

"And what makes you think I want to see what it is you are offering me. That I want to look on_ you_." His features twisted more viciously than ever. For the first time it turned her stomach, but in the next instant strengthened her determination yet further. His need to remind himself of their social inequality reflected his own insecurity and confusion; she expected it.

"Mr Malfoy, you are a man. And I, no matter what my heritage, am a woman. My body is just the same as any other body, my flesh the same flesh."

He did not move and gave no indication of agreement. She stood for a few moments longer in which the air grew so thick between them she seemed to struggle to draw in breath. Then, with a sniff, not admitting any emotion to herself, she picked up her things quickly and turned her back on him, drawing her wand to release the door.

"Very well." His words were shot out suddenly.

Hermione looked over her shoulder. Malfoy had raised himself tall, his nostrils flared, his mouth thin and tense.

"_Do it."_

His sudden compliance almost undermined her. She clenched her fists to regain some control over herself. But then, her resolve fortified once again, she turned back and took slow footsteps into the middle of the cell, carefully placing her things back down on the chair.

"You tell me the name first."

He sneered yet again; she could have drawn the expression from memory by now. "How do I know you will keep your part of the bargain?"

"I give you my word. Even you know me well enough than to doubt me on that."

There was another moment's silence.

And then he spoke, clearly and plainly. "Ivan Marshmore. He works in the Department of Magical Personnel."

A frisson of excitement coursed through her. Malfoy's eyes widened. She saw his Adam's apple lurch up his neck.

But Hermione was a woman of her word. With only a moment's pause, she set about keeping to it.

Slowly pulling up her top, she carefully exposed her breasts within the bra cups. Then, reaching up under the top to tug at her bra straps, she pulled them down as much as she could from her shoulders so that it would be easier to draw the cups down. She felt as if she was exposing her breasts for a surgical procedure, keeping them neatly framed between two sheaths of material. Was that cheating him? It would be enough.

She moved her hands to pull down the bra cups and paused, for the first time feeling a poke of shame. Hermione looked over at him. His eyes were already trained on her breasts. She had never seen such a gaze: gone was the arrogance, gone was the pride. His eyes were bright with longing, and his chest rose and fell rapidly before her. Any shame was wafted away swiftly.

Hermione brought up one hand, reached into her right bra cup and withdrew the breast, pulling the material down to rest beneath it. Malfoy's eyes flared and his mouth fell open the merest amount.

She repeated the actions on the other breast. Both her breasts were now exposed to him, cool and pale. She started to count the thirty seconds away in her head.

-xxoOoxx-

Lucius Malfoy stared. He had never realised that his eyes would feast on a sight as if they had been starved of beauty. He dared not blink for fear of missing any of it. He had lived for months with only grey stone, grey food, and the stark geometry of cell walls and square wooden chairs. There had been no organic curves and swells. Even his own body had become hard and ungiving, the bones defiantly straight if he dared run a hand over them.

Not only was the sight before him one which he would have welcomed no matter who it was, but this girl had to him the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen. If he had been asked to describe a perfect female, this would be it. Did she know it? Did she know the swell of her breasts, not overly large, but rounded enough to rise from her body so delicious and ripe, was a sight of sheer perfection? Did she know her nipples, dark pink and hard in the cold air, sat delicate yet proud in the ideal place?

He was too moved to even be aroused. Her total equanimity, her complete decorum in doing this overwhelmed him. He stared and stared, aware he must appear ridiculous, his mouth hanging slack, his eyes unblinking. _Sheer beauty._

Hermione had been counting carefully. _Twenty-eight ... twenty-nine ... thirty._ Immediately she turned, slipped her breasts back in her bra, and pulled down her top.

Lucius Malfoy almost staggered as the vision was pulled away from him.

Hermione swallowed hard. She had achieved what was necessary. "Right. That will be all for today. I think that was a sensible arrangement, don't you?"

He looked at her again. She reddened, he was sure of it, even in the dim light of the cell. Did she feel no more than satisfaction at a well-executed deal? He could not bring himself to speak. He did not wish her to see the delight she had wrought in him. He nodded, briefly and tersely.

She picked up her wand and intoned, _'Incarcero Overto.'_

"Will you return next week?" He had spoken impulsively and immediately cursed the betrayal of his curiosity, of his need.

"Yes. I'm instructed to work with you for a while longer. Good bye until next time."

The door was pushed open and she left, letting it thud shut behind her.

Lucius Malfoy stood for a quarter of an hour after she had left, not moving from the spot, his eyes closed, remembering, picturing.

-xxoOoxx-

Malfoy had been honest. The lead was a good one. Ivan Marshmore was questioned and, with a little instigation, confessed to extreme experiments in the Dark Arts which had benefitted Voldemort in the run up to the war, and gave an address where he carried out his operations.

Had Hermione doubted Malfoy? She realised she had not. Their arrangement had had a strange transparency and integrity from the start.

Did she regret what she had done? No. And her mind would not dismiss the sight of his eyes wide with wonder as he looked on her naked breasts. She knew she had given him something which would sustain him over the coming days; she knew she had given him a sight more tender than anything he had received in the last few years. Despite who he was, it felt good.

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><p><strong>You bet it did! <strong>

**I'm sure there is more information she needs to get out of him, but what will the bargaining be next time?**

**Love hearing from you. LL x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Apart from saying a huge thank you for the interest and reviews, I will simply let you get on and read. Enjoy. xxx  
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><p><em><strong>Week Five<strong>_

The following week, as Hermione felt the heavy door shut to enclose her into the cell, she registered Malfoy taking a momentary step towards her. There was a bristle of anticipation which had not previously been present. Again, it pleased her more than she cared to admit. But she waited. She had a question for him, but she would wait. She noticed him glancing at her more frequently, noticed his discourse becoming more animated. But it wasn't only Lucius whose anticipation was mounting. She may have disguised it well, but her curiosity over the situation was as ripe and expectant as his.

Yet, consciously or not, Hermione seemed to take a perverse pleasure in dragging the wait out, not only for him but for her.

And so the minutes ticked away, sometimes in silence, sometimes carried along by unfocused but surprisingly easy conversation. The physical presence of them both, organic and vivid, dominated.

And then, ten minutes before the hour was up, she said, clear and direct, "The Ministry believes there is a base for the Dark Arts in central Europe but has been unable to discover exactly where, despite extensive discussions with Magical ambassadors. You have family in Europe. Do you know where it is?"

He looked at her. As ever, she held his stare. Seconds slipped away.

"Information does not come free, Miss Granger."

Once again, that tingle of delicious excitement shivered through her. Her breath caught and held involuntarily, but she hesitated only briefly.

"A minute." Her lips were dry. Her tongue inadvertently came out to moisten them. "If you tell me, I'll show myself to you for a minute."

-xxoOoxx-

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. In still silence, a minute was a long time. He craved seeing her again. He had thought of little else all week. She had haunted his dreams and his dark awakenings. In the brief allowed seconds of his twice weekly shower, he had stood in the glory of increased sensation, the vision of her naked breasts tattooing itself on his mind as the water beat a tattoo on his neglected skin.

And now he needed to see those nipples perched again on the rise of her soft breasts. The vision had faded slightly. _A minute._ His throat ran dry in anticipation.

"Remove your top and bra completely this time."

"No."

"Then I will give you nothing."

Hermione's hands were clenched so tightly her nails dug livid furrows into her palms.

"Forty-five seconds. I'll take them off for forty-five seconds."

With only a beat of a pause Malfoy nodded.

"Tell me the place."

"Morchaneau – it is a small village in Romania, about 100 miles south west of Bucharest." There was no deceit in his voice.

And there followed no deceit in her actions. Hermione immediately started to undo the buttons of her shirt, starting at the bottom. Carefully and deliberately she slipped the small disks out of the eyes.

Malfoy sniffed in quietly as the smooth flesh of her belly was revealed to him. It was pale, but tinged with a golden softness. Hermione pulled it slowly from her shoulders and stood with her top half clad only in the pale satin of her bra. He noted, more than he had before, the subtle erotic quality of the material. It was not the scarlet and black lace of an overtly sexualised woman, but soft ashes-of-roses pink, satin, unadorned, with a black stitching around the edges. _More perfection._

Hermione did not look at him but continued with almost casual bravado. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the clasp and shrugged her shoulders forward to let the bra fall from her body. She tossed it to the side on top of her shirt.

Time began to pass immediately. _One ... two ... three ..._

Once again, Lucius Malfoy was transfixed. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. And this time his eyes had the dip of her waist to feast on as well. But those breasts ... They were rising and falling in tune with her breathing and belied her self-consciousness. The nipples once again became hard and prominent in the cool air, this time before his very eyes it seemed. Was the coldness the only reason they had risen so tightly? He daren't look into her eyes as he could not waste even a second of this vision.

_Pert. _Hardly the most sensual word, but it described perfectly all that was right about her breasts. He almost sobbed. He had not seen anything like it for years, even before this desolate emptiness he was now existing in, even through the years of mistresses and lovers ... here was the most sublime. And as she stood, soft and supple and golden and warm amidst the harsh, cold, rectangular dank surrounding her, his eyes grew moist. He blinked rapidly, angry only because the mist forming across his vision would obscure the sight.

_Forty-three ... forty-four ... forty-five._ Hermione immediately turned away, reached for her clothes and put them back on.

Malfoy inhaled with sudden, rattling desperation. He had barely taken a breath throughout the entire time.

When Hermione had dressed, she turned to him, her eyes once again dark and unreadable. "I'll be back next week." The doorway had formed.

As soon as he heard the door shut, Malfoy started to count away the minutes until her return.

-xxoOoxx-

The information once again proved true and useful. There were several arrests and a small group of dark conspirators were rounded up, but it led to little more in the wider area as had perhaps been hoped. The leads had been exhausted. She would have nothing further to ask him.

Hermione was achingly disappointed.

_**Week Six**_

When she entered his cell the week after she could tell his body was more energised than ever before. And so was hers.

Malfoy asked almost immediately, "What do you wish to know this week?"

Hermione hated to deny either of them, but now a sweet sense of control eased her disappointment. To have this once imperious pureblood in the palm of her hand sent a throb of satisfaction through her.

She shrugged casually. "Nothing. I'm simply here to continue your rehabilitation."

Malfoy's nostrils flared. He enjoyed talking to her, although he would never admit that, but the thought of not seeing her flesh this week was so agonisingly cruel he almost lashed out. "No information?"

"We have no hints of anything – you're not the fount of all knowledge, Malfoy."

He tensed. "But ..."

"But what, Mr Malfoy?" She eyed him sharply, watching his every reaction.

_The malicious little ..._ He raised himself up but drew on his vast reserves of patience and control. Composing himself, Lucius decided to bide his time.

"Nothing," he slurred, almost his old drawl. "Well then, we should continue my ... rehabilitation. Won't you sit down ... Miss Granger?"

Now Hermione did smirk. He had never spoken to her like that. She liked it.

She perched on the edge of the hard chair. Hermione cleared her throat.

"Well? Do begin." That was a definite drawl.

"I think perhaps we should start to introduce you to some Muggle culture."

"I don't."

"You don't have any choice." Hermione reached into her bag and drew out a book. "This book contains the most renowned art produced by the greatest Muggle artists. I'd like to show it to you."

"Why?"

His obstinacy was starting to annoy her. "Well, some people may think it will enlighten you to the rich talent and diversity of Muggles and how they produce their own brand of magic through their great insight into the human condition. Personally, knowing you, it'll probably just prove to be a way to pass the time. I'll enjoy looking at the book and you might be so bored that you'll glance over my shoulder occasionally."

"Is it my imagination or has it got warmer in here? There has been a sudden influx of hot air."

His sardonic humour tickled her, but she daren't show it. Instead, she made a show of sighing loudly. "Never mind. I'll just look at it myself."

Hermione started flicking through the book, running her fingers over the images which most appealed, the paintings which held a special significance to her.

Malfoy remained apart from her as she leafed through. He began a slow pace around the small cell. Hermione continued as if she hadn't noticed. She had come to a particularly dark and gruesome painting.

"A curious image," came a voice over her shoulder. "I find nothing pleasant in that. Why would anyone want that on a wall?

"It's by Francis Bacon – it's come to be called the Screaming Pope. He painted a whole series of them – they were based on a painting by Velasquez, a Spanish master."

"Is it worth a lot?"

"Millions. But you've missed the point. Rich fools will pay anything if they think something hanging on their wall will bring them envy and admiration. You'd know that, I should imagine. But the true value of art lies only in how it speaks to us."

"I would not pay anything for that - it is quite hideous to look at."

"It's supposed to be – it's supposed to evoke a reaction, that's all – it's supposed to draw out emotion, even if only within yourself. If it's well executed, then all the better. Why did you highlight that picture? You've been looking over my shoulder at several."

She sensed him huff in thought. "It confuses me. And it is unnerving. But there is a certain ... redolence."

Hermione smiled quietly to herself and continued turning the pages of the book. There was silence for a while. Malfoy did not move away from his position but only commented again when she came to 'The Incredulity of Saint Thomas' by Caravaggio.

"I presume that is Jesus."

"Yes." Her private smile deepened. "So you do know a little about Muggle culture then?"

"Everyone knows that story."

"Many believe it to be true - my grandparents, for example. Jesus tells Thomas, who has not believed he has risen from the dead, to stick his fingers in his wounds to confirm it. Caravaggio portrays that moment in the most visceral but luminous way with the richest colours and textures. The flesh is golden, don't you think? You could almost reach into the picture and touch it, just as Thomas is doing."

_Golden flesh. The touch of flesh ..._

"Enough of this." Lucius Malfoy was becoming impatient. If this woman wanted to discuss reaction, nothing had evoked a bigger reaction in him than having her sitting in his cell, smelling of apples and sweet peas. And now he wanted more. He could not bear to have her part from him without another glimmer of what she had granted him before. But he knew he would have to bargain once again.

"Miss Granger ..."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps I ..." He swallowed his pride and spoke rapidly. "Perhaps I have information which may yet be of use to you."

She waited for him to continue. His voice became less frantic now and returned to the low, measured tones which fell so easily into her.

"I have years of dealings with people who I know are still existent, who are lying low until the time is right, who are waiting, quietly waiting for the right moment to creep back towards the dark. They may not be a danger now, but wouldn't it be right to cut them out before their canker can spread too deep?"

"You've been investigated thoroughly, Mr Malfoy. We have already followed any pertinent leads in relation to you."

"Clearly not thoroughly enough. I have more."

Hermione paused. She could sense his motives in this, his desperation. Should she humour him? She stood her ground, about to deny him, but her own body had never felt so present and she found herself speaking aloud before her mind had sanctioned it.

"Go on then."

"Have you forgotten our little arrangement?"

Her heart skipped momentarily. She noticed a light tease in his voice.

"What arrangement was that?"

"Like for like, Miss Granger."

She hesitated. He continued smoothly, "Come now ... as I recall it was you who suggested those little ... glimpses. Surely you have not lost your nerve now?"

"What do you want?" Her skin was cast with a prickling heat.

"Perhaps if you were to ... turn around ... and reveal ..." Malfoy's voice trailed off.

"And you will give me the names?"

"Tut tut tut ... I cannot rush things, Miss Granger. One thing at a time. My memory is not what it was. It may take a while to recall the exact names and details going back many years. There is certainly one name I can provide for you today. A good one too. If you were to apprehend this person you would forestall many wickednesses in the future."

"OK." She stood up. "The name."

"Do you know what it is I have asked for?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I will turn around and pull up my skirt. For one minute."

"And take down your underwear."

"No."

His eyes flared. "Two minutes with your underwear still ... intact."

She swallowed.

"It's a good name, Miss Granger."

"OK." Hermione pursed her lips tightly. "Two minutes. Now give me the name."

"Ranulph Fitzwilliam."

She was shocked. "Fitzwilliam? He's one of the noblest purebloods in the country. He's never been a suspect, even in the first war. His house is open to the wizarding public – he's a great philanthropist."

"But his cellars aren't open to the public, are they? Perhaps you should suggest that the Ministry's minions start their search there. Now, Miss Granger ... I'm waiting."

Despite the apparent switch in control in this little game they had been playing, Hermione still felt no shame. On the contrary, an electric rush of excitement coursed through her as she stood and turned slowly away from him.

She moved her legs a little apart. She had worn Brazilian knickers that day which rested halfway across her buttocks so that the cheeks were highlighted at their most plump and indulgent. It was no disadvantage to Malfoy that she was wearing underwear.

Hermione slowly gathered the material of her skirt in her fingers and with a reddening of her face, through exhilaration rather than remorse, she pulled it up, inch by inch.

She made not a sound and in the stillness of the cell could hear the deep steady breathing of the man behind her. She almost forgot to count.

-xxoOoxx-

Again, Lucius Malfoy was overwhelmed. Her arse was no less perfect than her breasts, and the ripe twin peaches of her cheeks sat upon neat and tight legs, not overly long, but shapely and elegant and finishing in heels which he had oddly not noticed until now. But his eyes did not linger long at her feet. He could only stare upwards again. He was rather glad they had agreed that she could keep her underwear. The knickers merely highlighted her delicious shape. The sight of this prim and proper Ministry official, who he had so despised most of her life, standing before him, exposing her rump to his view, was again a sight of supreme, irresistible satisfaction. But now, as had rather oddly not happened the previous two times, he became unavoidably aroused. His cock rose quickly and desperately and strained painfully against his trousers. He took a single step towards her.

-xxoOoxx-

_Sixty ... sixty-one ... sixty-two ..._ Hermione heard a rustle behind her. Was he moving closer? Was he going to touch her?

She tensed. _Did she mind if he did?_

That was not part of the deal. He mustn't. He could have what had been agreed, no more. Yet still, she trusted him. The discipline of their little game was something they both respected.

-xxoOoxx-

Malfoy took another step in. He was so close to her now that he could have reached out easily to touch her, but he would not, he knew that. Clenching his fists tightly, he managed with vast effort to refrain from rubbing over his brimming erection. It was agony not to, either to touch himself or her, but it would have been equal agony if he had. She would most likely have gone and never come back, and that was the last thing he wanted. And the mere sight of her was enough. The thought of any more tormented him beyond endurance, so he dismissed it.

_One hundred and eighteen ... one hundred and nineteen ... one hundred and twenty._

Her hands let go of her skirt which tumbled back down over her backside. Malfoy stepped back into the shadows.

Hermione eventually looked around to meet his eyes, bright despite the gloom he was masked within. He was not smirking and his eyes lacked the cold arrogance they usually contained, even in a prison cell.

"Until next week, Miss Granger?"

She nodded, gathered her things and left.

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><p><strong>More soon, but in the meantime, if you have a few seconds to put your thoughts down, it helps a lot. LL x<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**For reviews, thank you greatly. You lot are quite fabulous, you know.**

**And, for your reading pleasure ...**

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><p><em><strong>Week Seven <strong>_

The following week, in exchange for the name of a dealer in Knockturn Alley who sold unlicensed potions ingredients, Hermione revealed to Lucius Malfoy her backside without underwear for a minute and a half.

_**Week Eight**_

The week after that, after he had given her the name of Rabastan Lestrange's supposedly dead cousin who was in fact alive and well and living in Keswick, Hermione stood before him and took down her skirt and knickers, fully exposing herself for sixty seconds, with her legs a tantalising fraction apart.

And still, she felt no shame. As she walked down the grim corridors of Azkaban afterwards, she was damp with excitement.

_**Week Nine**_

The following week, to begin with, they talked. She had brought her parents' old CD player and put on the Mozart Requiem, a piece of music she had adored since childhood.

"Why are you playing me the music of the dead, Miss Granger?" He surprised her by revealing he knew it already.

"It's an incredible piece of music, no matter what."

"'_Ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum.'_ Neither let them fall into darkness, nor let the black abyss swallow them up."

She stared at him. The Latin he had spoken so smoothly sat luxuriantly in the otherwise barren air.

"Is that why you are here, Miss Granger? Saving me from being swallowed into the black abyss? How very noble of you." Lucius looked back at her, thinking she may go, hoping beyond hope she would not.

Their eyes were locked unerringly for a time before she slowly put the music away.

"Do you have anything for me today?"

It was she who asked it.

She wanted it.

Her need surprised him, forcing him to suppress a smirk. But his delight was tinged with fear. This was the last piece of information he had. Even he would not concoct facts; if his intelligence was found to be erroneous, she would not return to him. But for now, he could still play the game. His groin began to stir immediately.

"As a matter of fact, I have recalled a significant and possibly vital fact. A wizard who disappeared before the second war, supposedly not willing to follow Voldemort, but who was greatly skilled in the Dark Arts ... I was told once, not long ago in fact, where he was hiding and had forgotten, but I have suddenly remembered."

"Go on."

"And what will be your part of the bargain today?"

"I ... I don't know." She seemed unsure, not of continuing, but genuinely uncertain what to do next; the stakes had been gradually rising over the last few weeks. He pressed on, needing this for both of them.

"This is someone whom I know the Ministry has been seeking for years. If you provide his whereabouts, you will be lauded and praised ... promotion beckons, I should imagine. This information is worth a great deal, Miss Granger."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Have I misled you so far?"

He had not – every one of his leads had been followed up and had led to an arrest or a discovery, just as he had said. He stepped into her, searching her eyes.

There was a long silence before Hermione spoke again, softly, barely daring. "Touch."

"What?"

"Do you want to ... touch me?"

His head swam. He could scarcely breathe. Was she offering him the feel of her skin?

Lucius opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound emerged. He forced his answer out as loudly as he could. "Yes."

"My breasts. Only my breasts."

He nodded.

-xxoOoxx-

The information sounded significant, but Hermione knew that was not the reason she was doing this. The thought of those strong, warm fingers stroking over her was something she craved. And he would adore it, she knew. The pleasure to him was as satisfying as the pleasure she would gain.

Every week she had gone home and plunged her fingers into her lonely heat, and when she came she could not ignore whose image was at the forefront of her mind. It was impossible to deny her desire.

But she had him where she wanted. She could manipulate and tease and please him with slow and deliberate control. And through it they had been moving ever closer to a understanding, an acceptance, an admiration even, which would have been unthinkable at any other time. But their openness before each other, no matter how unacknowledged it went, had changed her perception of this former Death Eater, this man she had so abhorred. The situation was fascinating her so much, exciting her so much, that she could barely wait for the weeks to pass.

"How long?" he asked softly.

"One minute."

"Two."

"One and a half."

"Very well," Lucius agreed. He held himself tall. "You will find this man, Oliver Millbank, in the village of Woolsery in Devon."

She looked hard at him, her eyes flickering. But with no hesitation, almost in haste, her hands moved to her shirt and she removed it, followed by her bra.

-xxoOoxx-

There before him were those perfect breasts once again. Lucius almost stumbled, the sheer wonder of it for a moment overcoming him.

And then slowly, aware of every inch he drew nearer, he brought up his right hand, carefully, closer and closer. She was breathing rapidly, willing him into her, desperate not to show it.

Lucius had risen painfully again, his hand almost trembling. It had been so long since he had touched such wondrous skin, soft and pliant. And now, it was here, offered so willingly. His hand came closer and he extended two fingers at first, and touched.

She was warm, so warm, soft and smooth, like the skin of a peach. He could almost imagine his fingers slipping straight through her. He recalled the Caravaggio painting, the luminosity, the visceral flesh, caught between the human and the divine. He stroked his two fingertips down over the swell of her breast then brought his palm underneath and cupped it, feeling the weight resting in his hand.

Focussing hard, he did the same to the other, so that her two breasts sat almost reverently in his hands.

And then, instinctively, with honed awareness mastered over decades, his thumbs began to move over her, stroking the warm, supple flesh. He became bolder, moving them in longer caresses over her, and then, inadvertently at first, with the rise of his palm, he brushed against the nipple on the left breast. His touch registered the tight flesh, causing a jolt to his groin, and the woman released a sharp gasp. But she did not pull back. He turned his attention to the other nipple and brushed across it too, causing another moan to escape her. He had to do more. He set about rubbing over Hermione's nipples, lightly but deftly, and watching with admiring delight as they swelled and hardened under his touch.

Lucius glanced up. Her eyes had closed and her head had fallen back, exposing her neck. He wanted to nestle into her, to open his mouth and taste the skin of her throat, kiss along her until he reached that perfect mouth, open to draw in gasping breaths.

But he concentrated instead on what had been agreed. Now the backs of his fingers were grazing the nipples. She continued to moan, louder now, so enraptured by his attentions that he felt delirious. And then his fingers turned over and he took the nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezed, not hard, only a little, gauging her reaction. Her eyes darted open, but she did nothing to stop him. The light within them was glazed and she was biting her lower lip, those perfect teeth digging into the dark pink flesh so succulently. He pinched a little harder. She inhaled hard through her nose and her eyelids fluttered shut with bliss. She was slipping ... slipping into a realm beyond her control, beyond his control. Suddenly and startlingly, it terrified him.

"I must have run out of time."

His voice broke the spell. He released her nipples suddenly. She opened her eyes in shock and stared around, almost bewildered.

"I didn't count. I forgot to count," Hermione muttered, confused.

"I am sorry if I overstepped the mark, Miss Granger." His eyes were averted. The words of repentance surprised them both.

"I ..."

Time had run out. The door started to groan behind them, signalling the approach of the guard. Hermione barely had time to put her shirt back on before she was ushered out. She did not look back.

_**Week Ten**_

He feared she would not come the following week, but she did.

Hermione had spent the week replaying the moment between them. Her breasts continued to tingle from his touch every day, to cry out for more. Would she have gone further? She did not address her own confusion. The awareness that he had stopped, that he had maintained the boundaries of the arrangement, enthralled her as much as his touch.

But now she was back, her foot poised to take the next step in their little dance.

-xxoOoxx-

Hermione and Lucius stood before each other. Neither spoke. A mouse scuttled restlessly and audibly across the damp stone floor.

"Have you nothing for me today?" she asked, her voice hurried through rapid breaths.

"No."

He would be lying if he gave her more. It would be a fabrication. She would chase it up and it would prove futile and she would not return. Hermione swallowed hard. Her eyes flickered. She looked as he felt, he knew it: she was agonisingly disappointed.

"Right."

They stood rigidly before each other.

"In that case ... I ..." Her eyes moved away from him.

"What?" Lucius wanted her to speak, to engage with him, anything. Whatever she did, she must not leave.

"I ... haven't brought anything today. I thought ..."

"What? What did you think?"

"I thought ... you would have something for me."

"I have nothing more. I cannot lie to you."

"Then I ..."

"You can talk to me. We can talk." He was aware of sounding impulsive. He wanted her so much he was in pain.

"No. I ..."

"Why not?"

Hermione wrung her hands, her eyes darting furtively, reflecting the confusion of her mind. They must not break the arrangement, but yet they could not cope without it in some form. "I had better go."

"What?" His fingers itched to touch her again, his body was frantic for her to remain.

"I have nothing more to do today. Next time I'll be more prepared."

And Hermione turned and left his cell.

Lucius stood stock still, his mind reeling at the sudden denial of her presence, his body rigid with despair. But before agony had sunk too far through him she had pushed back through the door before it thudded shut.

Hermione leant back against it to seal it shut, enclosing them both inside, her eyes wide, her chest rising with adrenaline.

"Mr Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"The arrangement we have ... _we had_ ... I feel you have benefitted a lot from it. If there was a way of continuing it, would you want that?"

He nodded. He wanted it so much he would kill for it.

"That would be ... acceptable to me too. Can I suggest this: I will continue to do what I have done in exchange for ... confidences from you."

"How do you mean?"

"I will ask you a question which will only require a short answer, yes or no perhaps, and in exchange I will continue to ... do more."

"What sort of questions?"

"Personal questions."

"About my family?"

"Perhaps."

"About me?"

"Yes."

"With brief answers?"

"That's right. But I still dictate what shall be done afterwards. What you can ... do with me. And you must answer completely truthfully."

His face flinched.

"I will keep the information strictly between the two of us."

"Will we continue today?"

"Yes."

He hesitated, but only to absorb fully all she had said.

"I agree."

Hermione's breath quickened instantly.

"What will you do today?" he continued swiftly, desperate for her answer.

Her head dropped but her words followed on, subdued but clear. "Mr Malfoy. If you want ... I will ..." Hermione glanced up, a fearful brightness in her eyes.

"Yes?" His prompting was almost tender.

She swallowed with determination. "I'll touch you ... I'll hold you."

He had already risen as soon as she had entered the cell and now the thought of her curling those warm fingers around his cock, that cock which had known only his own hands for over three years, made him leak instantly.

This extraordinary situation, in which they had engaged in more and more extremes of sexual exploration, had proceeded without the slightest acknowledgement of it apart from when it was taking place. And now she was offering to take hold of his cock as if she was about to edit a report for him.

He would continue within her rules. Lucius sniffed in, maintaining his air of calm dignity, knowing underneath he was in such turmoil he could barely stand.

"Yes, Miss Granger. I think that would be appropriate." They looked steadily at each other. He noticed a dance deep in the brown of her eyes. "Therefore ... what is your question?"

Hermione licked her lips subconsciously, fixed her eyes into his, and spoke. "Would you sacrifice yourself to save your son?"

Lucius flinched. He was quite certain of the answer now, but was not sure he had always been.

His nostrils flared. The complication of the arrangement fired his soul but did nothing to deter him. And his reward awaited him. _Hands on him. Her hands. Warm and firm and assured on him. Her hands. _The woman stood there. She was breathing heavily and he could see her nipples hard under her thin top. He spoke with surprising ease.

"Yes. Although ... I did not always realise I would."

"Right." Her voice was dry but her eyes sparked.

Hermione stepped into him without hesitation. Boldly, almost defiantly, she approached him, and glanced down to his trousers. With nimble, quick fingers, she undid his buttons and, slowing with a sudden intake of breath, pausing only to absorb the moment, slid her hand inside. It took little for her to guide his cock out of the slit in his underwear. He was staggered by her confidence. Hermione's brows creased. In her hand she held a beautifully large, erect cock. She could not initially take her eyes off it, but then, fascinated, she brought her hand up to the head and closed her fingers round it, feeling the leaking of his lust onto her palm.

-xxoOoxx-

_Warmth and goodness._ Lucius' eyes closed briefly. After all this time, he may as well have been back in the womb. But he tore them open quickly to look down at her. She was studying his cock intently, and then her thumb touched the head, rubbing over it. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Hermione turned her head to his and held his eyes. Her confidence sent a shot of pleasure through him as much as the fingers encircled around his erection. And then she started to move her hand. Gathering up his constant leaking as she went, she stroked him hard, up and down, sweeping over the head, then down to the base. His flesh was rigid as rock, his veins pulsed thick. She had not enjoyed holding cock so much ever.

Malfoy was lost. He wanted to lean into her, rest his head on hers, breathe her in while she stroked and coaxed his cock to rapture, while she brought him perfect release.

Was he allowed to come? What had she said? He could not remember. His soul jarred. He must not break the arrangement.

It would not take long. He would come soon if she carried on like this. She had said she would touch him. That was all. This was so much more than touch. She was fucking him so perfectly with her hand she knew he was about to burst onto her.

"Please ... please, Miss Granger ... you must stop." His words were agony – was he really asking her to end this exquisite joy?

"I ..." Hermione didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do, but she didn't stop. Her hand moved up and down, pumping him in an intuitive circular motion, plying the head.

He would spoil everything if he came, surely. But he wanted to. He wanted to come in her hand so much his belly twisted with ecstatic agony.

"Please ..." he almost sobbed. And with all his will power he grabbed onto her wrist, not pulling her off him, but stopping her.

Hermione froze. The rules were becoming blurred. With a groan she tore her hand away and took several staggering steps back.

She looked across at him; his cock, purple and engorged, so needy, so miserable, dripped onto the floor in humiliated abandonment.

"I'll go now," she stuttered, turning and gathering her things in fumbling fingers.

"But you'll be back."

She had opened the door with her wand already. He was in hell. But then she turned, and she very nearly smiled. "Yes, of course. Of course I'll be back."

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><p><strong>Oh, don't worry, she will be. LL x<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Once again, thank you for all your incredible reviews. This story has had a tremendous response which has taken me by surprise a little. I do regret not replying to you all individually - I will endeavour to do so for the last couple of chapters. There is one more chapter after this, (I'd rather call it an epilogue, in a way) although I may consider dividing it into two.**_**  
><strong>_

**Enjoy. LL x**__

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><p><em><strong>Week Eleven<strong>_

Hermione burst into the cell the following week, casting aside the despair that had wracked Lucius since their time together last week. Practically throwing down her things, she beamed at him.

"Your case is up for review. I've been speaking to Shacklebolt, although it's in the hands of the Wizengamot now."

"I see."

"I have recommended you for release."

"I see."

Lucius processed her words and allowed the wonderful gravity of them to sink in, but it was her brilliant happiness which was thrilling him more than anything.

Hermione wasn't expecting thanks - she knew it would take some time for the news to register properly - but she was still unable to stop smiling. She sat on the bed, more relaxed than ever before. For the first time, Lucius walked over and sat beside her.

"Do you want to talk?" she queried. Talking wasn't the first thing which sprang to his mind, but her bubbling good humour spread through him. He wanted all of her, soul and body.

"About what?"

"Anything."

"Have you seen Draco?"

"Yes. He's doing well. Apparently, it's serious between him and Astoria. I like her. Not that my opinion of her would matter to you."

"Wouldn't it?"

She smiled and shrugged a little. "I didn't think my opinion of anything mattered to you. I didn't think you even considered I had an opinion."

He looked at her steadily. "Azkaban affects people greatly, Miss Granger."

She glanced up, looking from one grey eye to the other. "You would know better than most, I suppose. Two stints."

"Two?"

"Yes ... that year I was on the run ... you were back in your house after Voldemort broke you out of here."

"Back in my house ..." He turned his head away and looked blankly ahead. "Miss Granger ... I can tell you that I do not regard that period as any sort of freedom."

He felt her staring at him. Her hand jigged a fraction, almost as if she would place it over his. "But at least you could be with your family. Not like the hell of being in here."

"It was near hell. Purgatory, perhaps."

His use of the peculiarly Muggle term surprised her. "But this must be worse, surely. This is not a life; it's an existence."

He turned his head and cast his eyes over her face. "It is tolerable ... at times."

Hermione said nothing, but her face seemed more open than he had ever seen it. A single strand of chestnut hair hung across one deep brown eye. Lucius could focus on nothing else. Her proximity was enthralling him. The stirring deep inside grew stronger than ever; he could not allow too much time to slip away.

"Miss Granger. Following on from our ... discussion last week, I will continue to answer whatever questions you have for me, if you will keep to your side of the bargain." He struggled to remain calm and concentrated on fixing his eyes on her. "What will that be?"

Now it was Hermione's breath that came fast and shallow. She knew what she wanted, what she desired so much, but she daren't say it. He stared at her, his brows creasing a little at her hesitancy. "Tell me, Miss Granger." There was a faint edge of desperation in his voice.

Hermione at last spoke, quietly, almost in contemplation. "Touch me again. I mean ... really touch me." Her eyes flitted to his. "Do you want that?"

He swallowed but answered immediately, unquestioningly. "Yes."

Hermione stared hard into his eyes. He looked back, almost falling into the deep brown.

"If Voldemort were to return today, would you take his side again?"

He flinched, just a little, but he feared he had not hidden it from her. Lucius daren't look away, could not risk revealing his anxiety. But as he was held in the certain dark hue of her irises, he heard himself answering:

"Yes."

He looked away, suddenly and confusingly ashamed, but with an extraordinary sense of sincerity, not wanting to hide from her anymore. He stood up, prompting her to stand too, and forced himself to look back into her. "Because I would be too afraid not to. I am a coward, I know it."

There was a silence where panic began to well up in him, but the woman before him did not flinch.

"But he's not coming back," she stated factually.

She waited, not breaking eye-contact. He held it now, drinking in her certainty. She took one step towards him.

And then he moved into her. Neither of them did anything for some time, simply searched each other, read each other.

At length his gaze dropped and he saw her reach down to the hem of her skirt and drag it up over her hips. She did not move, but he could feel her breathing growing rapid and deep. Slowly, he moved his hand towards her. His fingers found the top of her knickers and with deft movement he tugged them down, enough to grant him ease of discovery.

His eyes darted back to hers. She held his stare determinedly, her gaze almost harsh. And then Lucius moved just his middle finger, questing down over the neat downy curls and touching the warmest but featherlight touch on that nub of flesh that sat just within her damp heat. Hermione gasped, unable to stifle it.

She was wet, hot and wet and silken. It was the most wondrous sensation he had had for as long as he could recall. His finger slid further, feeling the sodden flesh slipping apart to welcome him. And then he was reaching up into her, deep and hard, two fingers trying to feel as much as he could, and she ground down to further their progress.

The Muggle-born and Pureblood Death Eater stood in his desolate cell, his fingers pushed deep up into her body for fear she would vanish if he didn't hold her onto him. But Lucius worked with intuition, and this woman responded to his every touch. She held his gaze to start with, relishing the join of their eyes as much as his fingers thrusting within her, but soon the pleasure became too much and her eyelids fluttered shut, her head fell back and she moaned as reality blurred.

For Lucius, it was as if his fingers had not felt until this moment, that every sensation and touch he had encountered before had been a rehearsal for this, when all life would press itself onto his fingertips and he would discover touch properly. Her wet desire was the first dew of creation, her flesh the first fruit in the Garden. His fingers felt it and his soul fed off it.

He was sliding and circling her clit again, so perfectly, absorbing the thick moisture which oozed from her after his skilled fingers drew it out.

"I want you to come. I want to feel you come, hear you come." His thoughts were said aloud.

She moaned, her head falling back in despair. _This wasn't supposed to happen._

"Will you let me? Will you let me make you come?" He breathed his words with hoarse desperation into her ear.

She turned her head, grimacing against her lack of control, furrowing her brows as pleasure grew thick and prickling within her, her world centred on this man and the feelings she had longed for from him.

"Do you still hate Muggle-borns?"

"Yes," he hissed, his fingers working her brutal and sweet now. "Come for me."

She resisted, shaking her head against it.

"I'm a Mudblood. Do you still hate me?"

He didn't at first answer, but his fingers did not stop. She dragged her eyes open to lock into his.

"No."

Hermione's eyes widened, almost in shock, and she came. She came so profoundly that her hand instinctively reached to his shoulder for support. Pleasure poured through her upright body violently and completely, prompting his name to escape her lips in a rising gasp: _"Lucius!"_

Never had touch and sight and sound brought Lucius Malfoy such perfect happiness.

For the time, nothing more could be said or done.

When his hand at last relinquished her, she slipped from his cell silently and secretly.

_**Week Twelve**_

She returned the following week. They had both dragged the days away with impatient despair.

This time, there was no chat beforehand, no protracted semblance of formal protocol. Desire overrode all other emotions as soon as she entered his cell. They wanted each other so much it hurt. But, still, neither could go beyond what had been agreed. Hermione walked in, placed down her things and looked at him.

"I'll take you in my mouth." For a moment she surprised herself with her candour, but not for long.

Lucius almost fell forwards. _Yes, yes, please, please, my beautiful creature._

He nodded, quickly, furtively. Hermione did not hesitate in asking the question. She stepped up to him, ensured she held his gaze, and spoke.

"Do you feel remorse for the way you treated me in the past?"

Lucius blinked. But he did not avert his gaze. If she wanted to read his thoughts, she would see complete honesty in them. "Yes."

Hermione continued to stare into him. Her eyes grew damp, he was sure of it, briefly, before they were cleared again with her next blink. She swallowed once.

And almost without him realising it, her hand came to his buttons and she slipped his trousers open. Still not looking away, she took his already hardening cock in her hand and held it, plying it to fullness.

Then, without a smile or tease, but with complete determination, she gave at the knees and slid down his body.

Lucius glanced down to see her lips opening, and then, with a sensuality and completeness which overwhelmed him, she slipped him inside her mouth.

Nothing mattered. Azkaban didn't matter. The pain of divorce was forgotten, humiliation of trial, guilt: all dismissed. Nothing mattered except being inside this woman's mouth.

She was so wet and warm and accepting that he wanted to stay like it forever. And then she pulled her cheeks in around him and sensation tore through him. Lucius opened his mouth and a sound of pure release poured from him, reverberating through his chest. His hand came down and clasped in her hair, holding her onto him. She didn't pull back. Her head was moving now, dragging along him, her tongue dipping under and up the slit, tasting his sweetly salty desire. He had had more blow-jobs than could be numbered, had expected it from his partners without any query, but now ...

This woman's mouth and tongue on him were revelatory. His grip on her head relaxed and he gave himself to her. His complete absorption in it went beyond sexual pleasure and for a time he needn't fear that he would come.

-xxoOoxx-

Hermione had forgotten where she was. Her surroundings, however desolate, did not register on her. Her only focus, her raison d'etre at that moment, was the hard length of man in her mouth. This man. She had never craved the taste and feel of anything so much. If she could suck and lick him clean of the past, she would. As her lips tugged and her tongue dragged over him she registered the taste of him and devoured it, pulling on him for more, and always rewarded.

-xxoOoxx-

As much as he longed to prolong the experience, the inexorable rise of ecstasy began to assert itself on Lucius; the tightening in his groin and the swimming in his head grew rapidly and he groaned in despair.

"Don't ... I can't stop ... I'll come ... I'll come ..."

He tried to lift her off forcibly, but she continued sucking so perfectly that his strength failed him. Lucius was desperate, caught between reason and rapture, between his own selfishness and his surreal need for order.

He gripped her head hard again.

"_Hermione."_

She looked up in shock at her name, relaxing her mouth suddenly around his rigid, swollen cock.

Lucius took the opportunity and backed away from her, staggering amidst a moan of desolation and only just managing to slump back onto his chair.

Hermione stared at him, disbelief transparent and obvious on her face, her eyes damp. "You didn't deny me ... why should you deny yourself?"

His eyes closed and he turned from her.

The door groaned to open. When he looked back, she was gone.

_**Week Thirteen**_

She hadn't come.

Lucius could tell from the light squeezing into his cell from the narrow window that it was after the time she usually arrived. That time had come and gone what seemed hours before. He sat, as dark and dank as the walls around him. He had spent the entire week in despair, dreaming only of her. His dreams were haunted by her. In them he would be with her, kissing her, tasting her, inside her, but never able to come. Something would always stop him, would drag him off her, drag them apart, not her, nor him, but an invisible force denying them each other.

And now, even those dreams were worth more than this. If he had to remain awake without the hope of ever seeing her again he would rather stand and dash his own head against the walls enclosing him.

And then there was a noise. The door was opening.

Malfoy looked up slowly, expecting no more than the guard with his bread and the vegetable water they passed off as soup.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Hermione. He had never known relief like it.

But something had changed. She looked at him steadily but barely moved into the room. And then, appearing just behind her, came Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Hermione at last walked into the room. Her eyes were bright, different, but bright. His heart quickened.

"Why is he here?" The Minister's presence dragged up emotion: resentment – this was their time, his and hers, no one else's; jealousy – he did not want anyone else near her.

"Mr Malfoy ..." She smiled, that same gentle smile he had seen before. "The Minister has some news for you."

"Malfoy." Shacklebolt stepped forward. No matter what he was about to say, Lucius still wanted to smash his face in. "The Wizengamot met last week. They have studied all the evidence in your case again and considered the – help – you have recently given us. In close consultation with Miss Granger, whose opinion we value most highly, it has been decided that you no longer pose a threat to society. Due to your past crimes it will be necessary to monitor your activities carefully in future, but ... you are to be released from Azkaban with immediate effect."

Lucius swayed, the cell around him immediately starting to spin. At first, glancing at Hermione, he nearly turned to Shacklebolt and declined the offer. It would mean his time with her would end, that he would no longer have the weekly moments of bliss.

But when he looked at her, she was smiling so perfectly, so openly, that the reality of Shacklebolt's words at last sank through and settled warmly in his soul. "I think I need a moment to sit down."

"Of course, I realise this is sudden. You have Miss Granger to thank for that. For now you are to return to your home and stay there. You must remain there until appropriate structures are in place, but as your land extends further than most small European countries, that shouldn't be a problem." Shacklebolt smirked at his own humour. Nobody else did.

"There is some paperwork to deal with. These parchments are your release papers. Please sign here." Lucius glanced over the documents, reading them quickly. They were all in order. He signed distractedly, his hand shaking and scratchy.

"I ... does ... Draco know I'm coming?"

Hermione approached him, searching his eyes. "He's away at the moment but knows of your release. Someone will be staying with you for a while to ensure all is in order."

"Who? Who will that be?" His eyes flicked rapidly between hers.

She smiled at him again, and her smile was as life-giving and affirming as the touch of her flesh or the sight of her nakedness.

"Me."

He wanted to kiss her. He'd never kissed her. He wanted to kiss her so much he forgot Shacklebolt was in the room. But Hermione seemed to have her senses about her and stepped back quickly.

"Malfoy ... you are free to go. As has been discussed, Miss Granger will be staying with you. Personally, I suggested someone else, but she seems happy enough. I would like her to be given a suite of rooms sufficiently distanced from your own. You know how expansive the grounds of Malfoy Manor are, don't you, Hermione? I imagine you'll enjoy exploring them. Make sure she is provided with all she needs, Malfoy. You may experience some trauma in the weeks following your release. Miss Granger will liaise with you and ensure you are looked after. That's all." Shacklebolt gave Lucius one last brief nod, lacking any warmth or generosity. "You're free to go."

Malfoy stood up, his legs barely functioning. He looked blearily round the room which had housed him for the last three years. He felt nothing towards it: no remorse at leaving, but neither any great relief to be out of it, simply nothing. "I have no belongings to take away from here."

"Mr. Malfoy, if you're ready ... you may come with me." Hermione's voice was so unassumingly intimate. Had it always been like that? With her, he could do anything.

Slowly, with deliberate footsteps, Lucius made his way out of his cell behind her.

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><p><strong>One more to go ... or maybe two.<strong>

**Still love hearing from you. Feel free to PM if you don't wish to write in a public arena. xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**I have split this last bit into two for you, so there is another chapter after this one. I had originally referred to this as an epilogue, but it isn't really, as it follows straight on from where the last chapter left off. Thank you for the wonderful response to this fic. You have been very generous in your reviews. It's often the stories which just sneak up on me as an afterthought almost which seem to be the most successful (it was like that with To Relieve Boredom, The List and Size Matters too, all of which are some of my most successful fics).**

**Anyway, this is quite emotionally intense and rather heavily romantic, in good ol' laurielove fashion. Oh, and there's some more sex too, just for the heck of it. ;-) Love you all and thanks for reading. xxx**

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><p>Apparation was not considered appropriate for transporting newly released prisoners. And so, rather bizarrely, one of the proudest purebloods was transported back to his family home from Azkaban prison by Muggle car. Admittedly, it was one of the Ministry's Rolls Royces. Their knowledge of Muggle automobiles was archaic to say the least. As far as they were concerned, there was no other form of luxury car except a Rolls Royce.<p>

It was a large car. Hermione sat opposite Lucius while they travelled. A Ministry official rode with them to ensure that Malfoy did not attempt escape on the way. He was essentially still under house arrest until a protocol had been put in place. Nobody spoke. The official, tight-lipped and tight eyed, kept his head down the entire time, perusing a parchment, clearing his throat with a dry rasp occasionally.

Hermione caught Lucius' eye and smirked. She noticed the corner of his mouth curl up briefly before he turned his attention once more out of the window.

The journey took several hours but thankfully, to Lucius and Hermione, seemed to pass rapidly in the euphoria of new-found freedom and the presence of the other.

When they arrived, Lucius stood in the driveway momentarily, staring at the imposing grandeur of his ancestral home. The sight of it was so familiar, had been so longed for at his darkest moments, but now that he was here, he was somehow distanced from it. He turned to Hermione and immediately the emptiness was eased. She stepped in closer and bestowed the warmth of her body. He felt her fingers brushing his. If it wasn't for the official, he would have taken her hand.

Once the Ministry crony had checked the Manor was secure, he left, and they were at last alone.

They stood in his hallway. Hermione lit a few candles to dispel the darkness. She walked slowly back to Lucius. "There we are. Freedom. There's nothing more I need do for you."

A jolt of panic shot through him. "Is that it then?"

"Is what it?"

"What we had?"

Her eyes flicked between his. "I wanted to ease your suffering. Give you something to help pass your time."

"Is that all it was?"

She glanced away. "To start with, yes ..."

"And by the end?"

For the first time, he detected uncertainty in her. But over what? Her emotions or his? Hermione turned away, looking distractedly around her. "Do you have everything you need? The man showed me to a room earlier. If you need anything I suppose you should ..."

Before she could say another word he had caught her by the wrist, pulling her round, causing the length of her body to fall hard and full against him.

For a moment, both were caught in shock, their eyes flitting into each other's, searching for meaning and acceptance. Then his right hand came up to cup her face and his thumb smoothed over the skin of her cheek. His other hand rose to mirror it.

"Release me."

She creased her brows, almost unsure she had heard right. "You are free. You don't have to go back there."

He held her head harder, his gaze burning her eyes. "Release me from the arrangement. I want you. I want you with no need for bargaining, no deals, no provisos. I want you completely and wholly and I will do whatever I have to do to keep you."

"Lucius ..." Hermione stared at him, her eyes hot and wet.

"You have been so immaculate, so perfect in your behaviour and your expectations, that I will not dare, I will not do it unless you allow me freedom. And I sense in you the same hesitancy, and that itself is so, so beautiful, you perfect creature. But ... I will not take it further in the same way. I need your openness; I need you and want you entirely. Please ... _please _want me too."

She sobbed, trying and failing to stifle it, and a tear fell from her wide brown eyes. "Yes." Hermione swallowed hard. "I release you."

For a moment it seemed as if he might back away, almost too overawed by her words. She could sense the skip of both their hearts. But his eyes did not leave hers, and then, slowly, Lucius lowered his head and kissed her lips.

Hermione had never been kissed so honestly. His warm suppleness was so genuine and giving she sobbed against his lips. In all their time together they had never come close to a kiss, would never have dared or presumed, although both had dreamt of it innumerable times.

And as he held her, the tips of his fingers clasping her to him, it was only now that Hermione realised she wanted him, not just lust; she wanted him, body, mind and soul. Any lingering concerns about his past, about his character, already diluted over the last weeks, were now eradicated in one kiss. Lucius' lips nudged hers apart and she felt his tongue slip inside, tentatively at first, not wanting to impose, but her opening mouth gave him the encouragement he sought and he deepened the kiss, his wet warmth inhabiting her and plundering all she was. She sighed as he at last moved his mouth away from hers, only to continue his kisses down her arching neck. She held him close against her skin. "I release you, my darling. I want you. I'm yours, Lucius. Have me, Lucius. Have all of me."

It was Hermione who reached for his clothes first. Still standing by the door in the great expanse of his hallway, she pushed his jacket, the same tattered garment she had first seen him wearing in prison, from his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a heavy rustling thud. Their kisses became constant now, not prolonged, but persistent and needed. They were walking deeper into the house, towards the staircase, and as they walked clothes continued to be shed, tumbling to the floor as if compelled off their bodies by the force of desire.

Still they kissed. Despite exposing herself at her most raw and open to him, this was entirely new and innocent and adoring. Their kisses were given with such sweet honesty they felt newly young. They made it up the staircase without even realising, and when at last she fell back onto a bed, she became aware they were both naked.

Hermione took a moment to fix the sight of him to her mind. He was lean after three years in prison, but still toned and tight. His skin glowed pale in the candlelight and he stood before her, staring down as she lay on the bed.

-xxoOoxx-

He was back in his own home after three years' absence, but Lucius Malfoy had not taken a moment to glance around him. He had led her to the largest guest bedroom but had looked only at her. And now she was lying naked before him, not surrounded by drab, barren, angular rigidity, but with red and green and gold silks and velvets and curves and coils. And she fitted. She blended into his house seamlessly. She was meant to be here. And he was meant to be in her.

Hermione stretched out upon the bed, feeling the luxurious material under her. But she too saw only the man standing before her, his cock rising up large and hard. Bending her legs to the sides, he was invited into her.

Lucius could wait no longer, he needn't. She had requested no information, she had asked no questions. Her only request, silent but palpable, was for him to be inside her.

He stepped forward and knelt on the bed rapidly. Holding his rigid cock in his hand, he placed himself at her entrance, wet and open and ready, and thrust.

After the initial grunt of exhaled pleasure from them both, they fell silent. He filled her completely. He stretched her perfectly. Lucius lowered his body to rest on top of her, allowing his weight to assert itself just enough to thrill her. She brought her hands behind him and let her fingers rest on his lower back, then slowly she drew them up, the muscles taut with desire.

Hermione looked once again into his eyes; they really were as brilliantly grey as they had seemed in the dimness of his cell. But now she could look into them without the sham of decorum, without the mask of disinterest. "Lucius," she murmured, "make love to me."

It was almost too much for him. The contrast between his life the day before and his life at this moment wreaked havoc in his mind and he shut his eyes tight to try to stem the tide of bewilderment. But when he focused on his cock nestled in the deep warmth of this woman, a woman who had found him at his lowest point, who had kept him going through empty darkness, he steadied, and with slow deliberation began to push along her.

Lucius moved within Hermione with careful and fine strokes. After all this time, he feared momentarily he may have forgotten all that had previously been so natural to him. But then Hermione clenched in hard and sent a ripple of expectant pleasure through him and he knew with sudden clarity that he was more attuned to her than anyone, that he would show her all that was right about man.

She pushed up, angling him so that he rubbed against her clit with each thrust. But she was so content, so enraptured by his body, by his clear adoration of her, that it took little to build her mounting pleasure.

Foreplay had been ongoing since she had first revealed her breasts to him all those weeks ago, and now he was inside her neither could wait. Hermione came quickly and completely, her pleasure pouring from her with a sighing groan. When he felt her pulsing around him, saw her eyes roll back in her head and her perfect red mouth open in an O of wonder, Lucius burst fast into her. Pleasure took him so hard he grunted to expel the shock of it, surprising himself. Her orgasm could still be felt claiming his erupting cock as he allowed his mind to cloud with pure white joy. He was still coming into her after she at last quietened, the last of his seed forced from his body by her perfection.

For a while he lay above her, propped up just enough not to cause her discomfort, and stared into her eyes.

She allowed him his silence, but after several moments Hermione reached up and kissed him, a kiss of pure acceptance. "Welcome home," she whispered. With that, he settled his body down, still buried inside her, and fell asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Bliss. We all like a good ol' dose of bliss every now and again, don't we? LL xxx<strong>

**One more to go ... she hasn't brushed his hair yet ... ;-) x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Last one. Thank you for the superb response to this story, which started out as a little idea. I could have carried it on in so many ways, but I think it's best to give them a little privacy after this; I'd never intended it to be a lengthy fic. But you know me, there will be plenty more soon.**

**So ... hairbrush at the ready ...**

**LL**

**x**

* * *

><p>Lucius Malfoy had almost forgotten what sleep was: proper sleep, sleep which seeps its way so deeply into your body and mind that you forget your temporal nature; sleep which enfolds you so profoundly it heals and repairs more in one night than many months of therapy.<p>

Lucius' healing continued when he opened his eyes and found Hermione Granger lying beside him.

She was keeping very still, but had clearly been awake for some time, and was looking across at him intently.

"Hello," she murmured.

He stretched and turned onto his back, flexing muscles which for the last three years had awakened stiff and resistant. This morning he felt nothing but heavy relaxation and easy limbs.

"Is it good to be back?" she asked.

He turned his head to look into her. "You're still here. Why are you still here?" His question was not accusatory, merely curious; he genuinely could not understand.

"Because I want it, because you seem to want it too, and because it's the right place to be ... and it's all under the sanction of the Ministry of Magic," Hermione grinned.

Leaning across, he kissed her softly.

"This is a beautiful room," she stated.

"Is it?"

For a man who had been starved of space and form, he may have been desperate to absorb all that was around him, but Lucius could only look at the woman lying beside him. It would take many months for him to ease gradually back into a semblance of normal life, but for now, she was all that was needed. But his mind tormented him. Why was she here? He expected her to go. She hated him. She must hate him. But he could read nothing but goodness and acceptance in her face. Suddenly and desperately, he grasped her into him, his hands gripping hard onto her back, his head buried in her neck, letting her hair smother him.

"I wish to ask a confidence from you," he said, his voice rattling against her throat.

Her fingers stroked along his back, noting the sharpness of his bones through the skin. "Go on."

"For all I have done to you, for all I have meant to you in the past ... I ask your forgiveness."

Hermione closed her eyes tight, unseen by Lucius.

She had forgiven him the first time she had seen the look of transparent acceptance and awe on his face when she had revealed her breasts to him. She had forgiven him again when he had used every inch of his strength to stop her making him spill chaotically into her hand that time she had held him. She had forgiven him completely when he had touched and stroked her so truly to the sweetest orgasm she could imagine, standing in his prison cell.

And now that she felt his body pressing every inch of its lean and hungry desperation against her, needing her humanity, needing her soul, she forgave him his life.

Hermione held his head and guided him to look at her. "Then you have it. I forgive you, Lucius."

They kissed, frantic this time, in need of affirmation and the proximity of pain. His teeth ground onto her lips and he forced her mouth open wide, plunging his tongue far into the wet warmth that was all her.

If he hadn't been so large, he would have slipped into her almost unnoticed, but as soon as the head of his cock pushed up into her, her eyes widened in wonder. She urged him deeper, and soon they were moving together again in that instinctive rhythm natural lovers have.

Their kiss may have been frantic but they both wanted this moment to endure; when they came it would end. So they moved slowly, simply enjoying the feel of their joining. When at last they climaxed, they came strongly and deeply and together, their bodies sharing the pleasure and magnifying it.

Lying together afterwards, their words coming through recovering breaths, Lucius turned to her, expressing the bewilderment they both finally acknowledged. "We've never discussed how this has come to be."

"No," she grinned. "Sometimes it's best that way. If we thought about it too much it would be ... too confusing."

"You do realise that I am far happier to find myself with you than I am to be out of that place, don't you?"

"If you'd still been there, do you think we would've gone this far?"

"Eventually – I don't think either of us could have prevented it, but it would have been different. It would have remained under the terms of our ... arrangement."

She smiled, kissing him again. She would kiss him forever. Hermione threw her leg over him and leant down. But no sooner had she started smothering him with adoration again, than she pulled back with a smirk. "I want to have a bath."

"You may do whatever you want. Come to think of it, I _need_ to have a bath."

She smirked. "You had a basin in your room."

"True ... and twice weekly cold showers."

"Ooh – luxury." Hermione grinned sarcastically. "Come on, I'll have a bath with you. And then I want to brush your hair."

He smiled gently. "A bath ... I'd forgotten what it is."

"Would you rather be on your own?" Hermione started to get up to grant him his solitude, but Lucius held her arm tight to keep her from going.

"No, not at all. You could run it though."

Hermione nodded, pushed back the covers and rose from the bed. He kept his eyes trained on her until she disappeared into the bathroom.

With a sigh, Lucius slumped back, staring blankly ahead of him. Already he missed her, just as he had when the heavy thud of his prison door had shut on him, pushing her away from him after each weekly visit.

But as his mind settled he glanced around. This had been the main guest room. He had taken Hermione here instinctively. He and Narcissa had stopped sharing a bed, at her instigation, shortly after he returned from Azkaban the first time. He had chosen this room, although his time in it was hard to recall. Now, as it at last impinged itself on his mind, he realised how right it was. It was hung with lush furnishings, not gaudy, but rich and restful, like a velvet and silk burgundy nest fashioned by some exotic bird.

It would take Lucius many weeks to even begin to appreciate the finer things in life again, apart from Hermione, but in the stillness of his solitude, with the sound of running water emanating from the bathroom, his eyes were easy with what they were seeing.

The door of the en-suite opened and Hermione emerged, a broad smile on her face. She was still naked and Lucius immediately felt the jolt in his groin again. He was not particularly hungry, although a whole kitchen of hams and cheeses and fruits awaited him downstairs, more food than he had seen for years. He had no desire to try on his old clothes and cast away the tattered garment he had been wearing nearly every day for the past three years. Human desire and want had been virtually extinguished in him, but not lust. She had awakened that the moment she walked into his cell and she had used it. She had used it to her advantage and to his ineffable healing. He wanted her always, at every moment they were together; if he wasn't inside her he almost feared she would vanish.

"Bath's ready," she smiled, crawling up the bed towards him.

He allowed her to take his hand and lead him into his own bathroom.

As Lucius sank into the hot water, it struck him momentarily that he was slipping through the hot earth itself, as if the ground was consuming him. Limbs then encircled him, and with the feeling of complete helplessness came also a comfort, the knowledge that, no matter what, now he was secure. For the first time in three years, he was cocooned and warm and safe and he knew it. He allowed the woman to guide him, an unfamiliar thing for him, giving himself entirely into the hands of someone he would normally have dominated. Hermione sat behind him in the large tub and pulled him back. He felt the quiescent popping of bubbles as he sank back to rest against her. The curls at her pelvis tickled him and her breasts cushioned him. He closed his eyes and fell deeper through the earth, warm and surrounded.

He barely noticed her washing him, but she did, carefully and thoroughly, easing off the grime of incarceration. It was only when she began to wash his hair that he took note. Her fingertips rubbed and massaged and soothed his scalp until he was lulled into a state of semi-consciousness yet again. As she rubbed, she began to hum a tune. It sounded as if he should recognise it, but he had no memory to dredge up. The smell of lavender wafted up from the shampoo, and he gave her his peace and contentment. She was still humming, rubbing and soothing and humming and taking away all the tension which had infected his brain.

It was almost too much, but he couldn't bear to tell her to stop. In any case, he realised what was overwhelming him, almost to the point of suffering – it was the smell. The heady, powerful scent of shampoo and soap and bath oils was too much; his senses could not cope with it after years of sensory deprivation. He resisted mentioning it though, but once she had rinsed his hair, a process which calmed the slight panic of sensory overload which had started in him, he rose relatively swiftly from the bath.

Once back in the bedroom he calmed further and found himself enjoying the process of drying his hair, something he always had his house elf do before Azkaban and the war. He used the _Calidus Spirantia_ spell, which sent a jet of hot air blowing from the tip of his wand, just like a Muggle hairdryer.

Once his hair was dry, the smell was less powerful and now simply wafted around him fragrantly and sensually: lavender. A memory came to him: his mother, silent and gentle, placing a small sprig next to his bed to help him sleep. Lavender. Always lavender.

Lucius reached for a hair brush.

"Let me." Before he could bring it to his head, Hermione's fingers closed around the brush. He glanced at her, aware he appeared startled. "Do you mind?" she continued gently. He shook his head.

Hermione was at last able to do what she had wanted since her first visit to Azkaban.

She began slowly, teasing out any tangles which had formed, apologising if she pulled by mistake. But soon the brush was running through his hair freely, tugging teasingly at his head before slipping through in long, reassuring pulls. Any stress which had wriggled within him earlier was thoroughly dispelled by this woman's careful and focused grooming of him. He closed his eyes, remembering the first time she had taken off her top in his cell. She attended to him now with the same candour and clarity that she had then.

Hermione eased into a rhythmic brushing, starting from the roots and drawing the brush down until the fine hairs were released from the hold the bristles had on them and fluttered free to rest along his back again. She did not rush. The bristles nestled briefly into his scalp with each stroke, and he delighted in the tugging which ensued and the feeling of slick progression down to the ends. His hair shone with a lustre she had not seen in it since that first meeting all those years ago in Flourish and Blotts. Even after years of neglect it now fell luxuriantly, curling into the nape of his neck.

Hermione continued to brush long after it was needed, running her hand over the smooth locks after each stroke of the brush. Her desire to do this had lain dormant over the weeks and now she found her body revelling in the simple process as much as the rocking of his body within her.

And now she was humming that melody again. Lucius let it wash over him as the brush continued its strokes.

"What is that tune?"

"It's not from your world."

"I didn't think it was."

"Shall I stop?"

"No. I like it. Tell me what it is."

"It's just an old folk song with a bit of sea shanty thrown in, normally sung to children ... my mother used to sing it to me when I was in the bath, and my father would come and join in sometimes. He had a wonderful bass voice. I loved it."

"Sing the words to me."

She sniffed out an embarrassed laugh.

"Go on," Lucius urged.

Softly at first, more embarrassed at exposing her singing voice to him than her nakedness, Hermione began to sing the words:

"Dance to your Daddy, my little laddie  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man<br>Thou shalt have a fish and thou shalt have a fin  
>Thou shalt have a codlin when the boat comes in<br>Thou shalt have a haddock baked in a pan  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man<p>

"Dance to your Daddy, my little laddie  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man<br>When thou art a young boy, you must sing and play  
>Go along the shore and cast your shells away<br>Build yourself a castle, watch the tide roll in  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man<p>

There. Silly really."

Lucius didn't answer. If he had he would have betrayed the crack in his voice. It was the first time he had heard singing for three years. And just as his sense of touch had been reawakened when he had slipped his fingers into her, his sense of hearing now came to life as if for the first time. He didn't want to lose that feeling.

"Will you carry on?"

She giggled softly again. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Hermione took up the song again and continued until she got to the last verse:

"Dance to your Daddy, my little laddie  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man<br>When thou art an old man, father to a son  
>Sing to him the old songs, sing of all you've done<br>Pass along the old ways, then let his song begin  
>Dance to your Daddy, my little man."<p>

Lucius glanced across at the picture resting on the table. It was of his son, and at that moment Lucius was acutely struck by how he had failed him, both as a father and a man. And here Lucius was, himself the child again, not the Daddy, but the little man, in the hands of this woman who had previously represented all that was inferior to him.

But he felt no shame or fear as he perhaps should have done. His time in Azkaban, his time with Voldemort, had exhausted his stocks of those particular emotions. And now, as premature as it may have been, he felt at ease with his future as he had never done before.

Hermione placed the brush down on the bed and stroked his hair from behind, a tender smile on her face. Lucius looked across at their reflection in the mirror.

"You only need stay until the Ministry is satisfied with me."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Are you kicking me out, Mr Malfoy?"

He let his head fall back against her and closed his eyes. "You know I want nothing more than to have you here every minute of every day."

Hermione moved out to sit beside him and guided his head round to her, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Does this make any sense at all?" he murmured amidst her kisses.

"No, but then not much of my life has made sense."

"I want to be inside you again." His hands slid inside her robe. Hermione was slipping fast but tried half-heartedly to resist.

"Don't you want to see the rest of your house? You haven't been here for three years."

"It can wait ... I've waited for you, Hermione ... waited and waited ... I want you now, no delays, no more patience."

"In that case ..." She lay down and slid her limbs over the bed, inviting him towards her. "Here I am."

And as he pushed deep into her again, Lucius Malfoy knew he'd do his utmost to make her stay.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy sigh.<br>**

**Finally, thanks for all the lovely reviews. It means so much when you take a moment to let me know what you think. LL x**


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